And then in the morning the first snow fell.
After the breaking point was hit. After the foggy, smoggy glass
was dripping
clear
with each furious,
tiny, burst.
Furious -
in that flurried, fluttering -
excitement
for a fleeting fall
- it'll hit the ground and halt.
But it'll make the most beautiful forgotten trails.
It'll melt.
It'll let me steal from it -
and crush the infamous pieces
into daubs of paint -
deep cuts of paint
and ink
and burns.
And melted wax.
I've been missing melting into strangeness.
Been suffocating the roaring madness within for a hand to hold. Just a hand.
I hardly was let to know the force of it.
It slips
so quickly then.
It dulls
so easily then.
When you've known the greatest creatures -
who always left the door
unlocked in the roughest part.
Who allowed the touch.
Allowed the desperate
condensation of hours - to be lost into sounds.
How it makes my madness growl now.
How it tingles -
hearing the piano keys speed in tempo
echoing the sound
against the very orchestra rafters.
Listen.
Listen to the excuses to leap.
